How Droll
by le-ouiaboo
Summary: America, various nations: de-anoned kink meme fills concerning various nations but mostly America. Replete with misadventures and misunderstandings of a humorous yet abusive nature. All mostly terrible. Rated T to R-ish. Contains America/Canada, Cuba/America, Denmark/America, France/America
1. Boys Will Be Boys

**Boys will be Boys**

* * *

"Faster, Canada, faster! Harder!" America's voice was hoarse from trying to shout over the loud rock music, but from the enthusiasm he put into it, they were still going strong after 5 hours and had no intention of stopping anytime soon. Probably due to those incredibly unhealthy energy drinks.

"I'm going as fast and as hard as I can!" Canada yelled back indignantly. Still, the thumpings got progressively faster and more erratic.

"Whoa, whoa, too fast! Slow down!" There was a noisy crash as something heavy fell to the floor. "Ow, that hurts! Are you trying to kill me?"

"Aaah, I'm sorry!" The rock music suddenly died down to a dull roar while the two adjusted whatever it was that needed adjusting. "Looks like I'm not that coordinated after all," Canada apologized, although he did not sound very sorry.

"No, you're doing well for your first time, really, don't worry so much. You're concentrating too hard, just… go with the flow, ok?"

"A-america…" Canada interrupted in a tiny voice. "We've been doing this all night, can we stop now, please?" Even when he clearly did not want to do something that America put him up to, he still had to say please.

"Aww, come on, Canada, you're no fun." But the music was turned off anyway. "All right, all right, let's do something else then."

"Like what?" the other brother sounded suspicious, as he should after all these years of being America's neighbor.

"Something like… Tetris," America replied, and you could practically hear the leer that must surely be plastered on his face.

"Wha-? I thought you hated Tetris…" There was another thump and a muffled shout. "Ohhhh! Th-that… kind…"

* * *

Somewhere to the south, Cuba decided, not for the first time, to kill whoever it was that bought them a replacement drum set for Rock Band. Apparently this someone did not learn anything from the infamous "Guitar Hero: World Tour" incident last year. (Or did they?)

"Well," he thought as he put his pillow over his head and tried to muffle out the extremely personal sounds coming from the north, "at least they'll be quiet the next day…"


	2. Dream Come True

**Make My Dream Come True**

* * *

America woke up with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat. He just had a terrible nightmare in which he was being fucked half to death by a big angry black dude in prison. As his bleary eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering in through the barred windows and he was able to discern the manly shape of, well, a big angry (and naked) black dude smoking a cigar next to him, America had a sinking feeling that it was not a dream after all.

"Hey, you awake… Canada?" This last word was said with some uncertainty, as if the owner of the deep voice could not quite believe what he was saying.

Thinking fast and recognizing the imminent danger his ass was in, America cleared his throat and did his best at imitating Canada's perpetually apologetic tone. "Um… yeah."

"Want some ice cream?"

Ice cream? After getting fucked half to death? Did that make the pain go away or something? He was certain that if this is how Cuba treated Canada (and he assumed that they were friends, more or less), then he, the awesome and beautiful hero, was probably going to be fucked all the way to death should Cuba ever find out he was actually America instead of Canada. …With his proudly non-Communist corpse offered ice cream afterwards.

Well, he wasn't going to die in such a demeaning way, not if he can help it!

"That sounds great, Cuba. What flavors do you have?" he asked as cheerfully as he could.

"Chocolate and vanilla."

Oh shit… Which was Canada's favorite? Argh, why didn't he pay attention whenever Canada came over?

"I'll uh, have whatever you're having." Was he supposed to say "eh" now or later? How come he couldn't remember that either?

Luckily, Cuba seemed to believe his charade, and he got up to get the ice cream.

America let out a quiet sigh of relief, rubbing at his eyes with his hands. Now came the question of how he got to Guantánamo Bay, what he was drinking the night before and how Cuba could possibly mistake him for his brother…

* * *

Somewhere in Washington D.C., Canada wondered why no one was picking up their phone. "More bars in more places, my ass," he thought, as he left yet another voice message for America about their misplaced plane tickets.


	3. Weinerbrod

**Wienerbrod**

* * *

"Oh. My. God. A Danish."

"It's Dane, not Danish-," Denmark started, instinctively making the correction, and then found himself pushed out of the way before he could finish.

"I loooooove Danishes." It was America, of course, grabbing one of the breakfast pastries set out on a table by the door and happily shoving it into his mouth. The resulting blissful look on his face could only be described as orgasmic. "So fucking good," he mumbled through a mouthful of dough and apple preserves.

Partly disgusted and partly fascinated, Denmark could only gape at this spectacle. Not that it was a particularly new sight, America actually did this at every world meeting, but generally he reserved it for his hamburgers and soda and ice cream and chocolate and coffee. It just happened that today they had an early morning meeting, and breakfast foods came up on the menu.

"Hey, you," America gulped down the pastry, wiping his sugar-covered hands on his suit jacket, and continued without pause, "you're Denmark, right?"

Denmark nodded, flashing a grin at the other nation, unreasonably proud that America, finally, without prompting from another nation, got his name right on the first try. Honestly, there weren't that many tall blond nations around, were there?

"_Kongeriget Danmark_, at your service."

"So… you know how to make those?" America asked, gesturing towards the last Danish sitting on a tray, blue eyes glinting with the sort of rabid fervor that could only be found in a twelve year old girl at a Hannah Montana concert.

"Of course." Well, he actually had never tried to bake _wienerbrød_ himself, but figured that if the majority of Danes knew how, then that meant he most likely knew, by osmosis or something.

"That is so awesome. You know, you should show me how to make them some time!"

Somehow, Denmark managed to keep his hesitation under the diplomatic limit of three seconds. "Sure thing, America, I'd love to."

America closed his eyes and made a high-pitched noise under his breath that was as disturbing as it was cute.

Denmark laughed and pointed at his own face. "You got some icing on your lip, America."

Blinking in confusion, America licked at his lips, looking much like a puppy. "Is it gone now?"

"No. Here." He reached towards the side of America's mouth, where a flake of sugar remained, wiped the icing off and then licked his finger thoughtfully. A little sweet for his taste, but the rest of Europe tended to go overboard with the sugar, especially that _Belgien_.

"Oh… Err… Thanks, Denmark," America stuttered, blushing slightly.

Ignoring the sole Danish sitting on the table still waiting to be eaten, Denmark smiled, leaning in forward to cup the other's chin, tilting it up so that he could taste the rest of the pastry on America's lips, a medley of sugar and butter and apple and coffee that tasted not so much of capitalism and innovation and warmongering, but of comfort and home and simple contentment.

It was with some regret when Denmark broke off the kiss, but it had to end some time, since America's grip on his wrist was starting to cut off the circulation to his fingers.

"I think I may have butter cookies in my room, the kind that comes in the blue tins," he murmured into America's ear, savoring that tiny boyish gasp, that delicious full-body shiver. "Do you want to…?"

This time Denmark welcomed the interruption, eagerly stumbling to catch up as America dragged him towards the elevators.

* * *

[Author's Note: reading these 3 years later, this is all sorts of terrible and inaccurate, but man, did I laugh like a maniac writing these. And that's all that matters, in the end.]


	4. Tickle Fight

**TICKLE FIGHT**

* * *

America could not believe the audacity of the other nation, the blatant disregard for the fact that Estonia was sitting only a few feet away in front of his laptop, finishing their committee presentation for tomorrow's meeting. There he was, innocently reading a report and twirling a lock of long blond hair around a finger, while below the conference table his couture-socked feet were gently rubbing at America's legs in slow, sensual motions. Up and down the side of his calf, pressing against the material of his trousers lightly. Touching his ankle, grazing his shin, then his knee.

Any higher and America would have to declare it an act of war.

Not paying any attention to the paper, France was actually gauging the other's reaction as he followed the seeming miles of leg with the tips of his toes before delicately reaching in between those long limbs. He grinned to see the boyish flinch, and shamelessly stretched further with his foot, seeking out those vital regions with all of the skill and experience of the country of love. It certainly was not his fault they were assigned to the small meeting room with a conveniently undersized conference table, and he needed to work some blood into his limbs after sitting still for several hours. Of course.

America bit his lower lip fiercely, finding it impossible to concentrate on the dossier with the secret game going on underneath the table. At least France decided to start this after they finished most of their work, but it seemed like he was trying to make up for lost time, judging by how dangerously close that foot was to his groin. Exhaling loudly, America tried to sit up straight and pull his legs back – why did he slouch in his chair in the first place and make himself a target like that – but France had already hooked his feet around America's ankles, holding him fast.

With a barely audible grunt, America glared at him, silently threatening another McDon*ld's in his beloved Paris. France just smiled and touched an elegant finger against the curve of his lips, and America rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Well, he'll play along this time, and get back at the pervert later. Right. France will get bored soon, he always does.

Oh, wait, but this was not fair, not fair at all. Across the table, France managed to calmly turn to another page even as one foot pushed the fabric of America's trousers up several centimeters and began to mercilessly brush against the bare skin above the top of his sock. America managed to stifle a gasp just in time, although he was unable to control the sudden hot blush creeping up his neck onto his cheeks.

Estonia did not bother to look up when America cleared his throat, quickly yanking his feet back, then wriggling out of his own loafers in order to return the assault, fighting fire with fire.

France's eyes widened imperceptibly when he felt America retreat, only to promptly counterattack with his own unshod feet. An admirable effort, but the brat was still woefully ignorant of exactly who he was up against. He paused his actions, and as soon as America thought he was winning, France snuck his silk-clad foot forward and deviously brushed at the sole of the other's foot with a toe, just enough to trigger the sensitive nerves there. As predicted, America nearly jumped in his chair, making a strangled squeaking sound. Even Estonia noticed that, and he glanced at America, concerned.

"Is everything all right, America?"

"Y-yes!" he managed to grit out, even as France continued to tease him out of sight, ruthlessly taking unfair advantage of his ticklishness, catching his leg by the ankle to keep him from kicking back. "I… just remembered something important I had to do, b-but you keep on working, don't worry about it." America took out a pen and began scraping away at a sheet of paper as if he wanted to hurt it, gnawing at his lower lip distractedly, trying to stifle his laughter with as much self-control as he possessed, which sadly was not very much.

"Okay…" Estonia shrugged and turned back to his computer, trying to not pay any attention to the occasional snort of what sounded like laughter as he put the finishing touches on their slides.

Desperately, America clutched at the edge of the table, determined not to give up despite the fact that he was clearly being outmaneuvered by the older nation. Every time he tried to stomp on France's foot or kick his shin, France would dodge or block him, and then smugly retaliate with devastating effectiveness, knowing exactly where he was the most vulnerable, what would cause him to eventually burst out into laughter.

Ah, he had finally worn down the younger nation's defenses, France noted triumphantly. America was now consumed with silent giggles, holding his aching side as he tried to breathe. His face was bright red, tears glistening on his lashes, a hand covering his mouth as if that would hide his evident mirth, and yet he somehow did not think to use his superior strength to resist France's tickling. Utterly helpless, and so absolutely adorable as well.

Finally, France thought to give America some respite, and quickly putting his designer dress shoes back on, he got to his feet and swept over to Estonia's side.

"_Mon cher,_ why don't we adjourn the committee for the day?" he whispered, letting his fingers sweep the other's pale hair back with the lightest of caresses. "I think we all deserve a break after our hard work, poor America looks ready to faint from… caffeine withdrawal." Well, he had not had a soda in 30 minutes, that was practically caffeine withdrawal for America.

"Errr… sure thing, France," Estonia murmured, flushing slightly from France's proximity. "Yes, I think we are ready for tomorrow's conference, so… I will see you two then?" They both nodded, America somewhat less composedly than France, and Estonia promptly packed up his things and departed, expressing his sincere hopes that America would feel better soon.

Oh, he will be feeling much, _much_ better soon, France thought as he locked the office door behind Estonia.

* * *

[Author's Note: And that's all folks! I had a few other fics I've posted before, but I felt they were a little too... risque for this place. Anyway, thanks again for reading, I hope you enjoyed, good night everybody!]


End file.
